Why bade ye elfe, ye pow'rs! her foul afpire' Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition sirst fprung from your blest abodes; The glorious fault of angels and of gods! Thence to their images on earth it flows, And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage; Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Uselefs,, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres; Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep, And, close consin'd to their own palace, fleep.

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) Fate fnatch'd her eaily to the pitying sky. As into air the purer fpirits flow, And scp'rate from their kind'rcd dregs below;

So flew the foul to its congenial place,

Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deferter of thy brothers blood! See on thefe ruby lips the trembling breath, Thefe cheeks, now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And thofe love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball, Thus mall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a fudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearfes fhall besiege your gates: There passengers shall stand, and pointing, fay, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way,) Lo! thefe were they whofe fouls the Furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pafs the proud away; The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So periih all whofe breast ne'er learn'd to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

What can atone, (oh, ever-injur'd made !) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rights unpaid? No fiiend's complaint, no kind domestic tear, Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier: By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What though no friends in fable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public lhow?

What though no weeping loves thy allies grace, Nor polisiVd marhle emulate thy face! What though no facred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge he mutter'd o'er thy tomh? Yet sliall thy grave with rising flow'rs he drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy hreast: There sliall the morn her earliest tears hestow, There the sirst rofes of the year shall hlow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now facred hy thy reliques made.

So peaceful rests, without a stons, a name, What once had heauty, titles, wealth, and fame. Mow lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or hy whom hegot: A heap of dust alone remains of thee; •Tis all thou art, and all the proud fhall he!

Poets themfelves must fall, like thofe they fung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays j Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart j Life's idle husinefs at one gafp he o'er, The mufe forgot, and thou helov'd no more!

ODE ON SOLlTUDE, f

Uappy the man whofe wifh and care

A few paternal acres hound; Content to hreathe his native air, Jn his own ground.

+ Written hy our author at ahout twelve years

Whofe herds with milk, whofe sields with hread,

Whofe flocks fupply him with attire; Whofe trees in fummer vield him Æiade,